


Clan of Four

by joonfired



Category: The Mandalorian (LadyIrina AU), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Soldiers, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Gen, I bs my way through so much Star Wars culture okay forgive me, Injury Recovery, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Michael has so many problems, Michael is a baby, Michael the Stormtrooper needs a hug, Michael was reborn through discord, Past Child Abuse, Stormtrooper Culture, Survival, because LadyIrina is just that powerful, in LadyIrina's AU we resurrect stormtroopers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22189786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joonfired/pseuds/joonfired
Summary: All is thought lost until it is found- aka -Michael the baby stormtrooper from Family and Home (LadyIrina) is given a family
Relationships: Baby Yoda & Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret) & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret) & Michael the Stormtrooper (Family and Home), Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret)/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Michael the Stormtrooper (Family and Home) & Greef Karga
Comments: 167
Kudos: 287
Collections: FF





	1. Regret and Mercy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Family and Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758992) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> This poor boy was saved by this wild bunch
> 
> https://discord.gg/2AmgJSy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traitorous thoughts lead Michael to a traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do not come expecting much fluff
> 
> be prepared for a n g s t

Once upon a time, he’d thought about going back. And not so long ago, he tried it.

It was a mess of scrambled nerves and frantic breaths that ended with a shattering jolt from a stun gun. He’d crashed to the ground, paralyzed and too terrified to make a sound even though screams echoed in his thoughts.

“Please,” he’d tried as they yanked off his helmet and dragged him back down the blank metal halls, footsteps ringing against the floor and pounding in his head. “I just . . .”

What had he wanted?

To see his family? But he didn’t even know if they’d care to see him so when had that been a practical reason?

“ST-2199, you are charged with attempted defection,” he hears at the end of a tunnel, his vision spinning as he blinks at the ground. “First offense sentencing: twenty shock-lashes.”

Fingers dig under his chin, forcing his head up. He looks up at the gray uniformed officer glaring down at him, hat brim sunk low over deep-set eyes and age-lined cheeks.

“We do not tolerate such behavior from our soldiers,” the officer murmurs, fingers curling in and in until he winces under the cutting bite of untrimmed nails. “Discipline is how we survive.”

“Y-yes,” he replies shakily. His vision wobbles and blurs, heat stinging the corners of his eyes.

“Get this pathetic mess out of my sight,” the officer spits, slapping his head away.

He falls heavily, palms slamming into the cold floor. His gloves . . . where are his gloves?

As he’s pulled roughly to his feet, hands jabbing painfully into his sides and pinching the straps of his armor, he looks for his gloves. He knew he had them when he left, so what happened to them now?

“Do you know where my gloves are?” he asks.

The words earn him nothing but silence.

He stares at his bare hands as he’s marched away, pale and chapped, nails bit down to ragged nubs. They aren’t supposed to see him like this, he isn’t supposed to be seen, he should have just stayed in line, shouldn’t have tried to run, shouldn’t have even  _ thought _ to run . . .

“What we got this time?” a deep-toned filtered voice asks.

He knows that voice. He hates and fears that voice so much. Maybe he ran from that voice?

He doesn’t know anymore. He just wants to go back to his bunk and wake up and shake this away as another damn nightmare.

“Attempted defection,” is the answer. “Twenty lashes.”

Twenty . . . he can take twenty. He’s had more, for smaller things, too.

Speaking out of turn. Questioning authority. Refusal to comply with orders.

Confusion. Curiosity. Forgetfulness.

He kept being punished for who he was, for what he tried so hard to overcome but could not escape.

“Defection?” The deep-toned voice sighs heavily. “Another one?”

He sinks to his knees before they have the chance to push him, reaching up for the front straps of his backplate. He knows this routine and memories of that pain make the future worse to think about it.

When his torso is bared and skin shivering with cold and dread, he squeezes his hands around the bindings holding his wrists above his head.

He closes his eyes.

And the pain begins.

~ + ~ + ~

Two days later, his back still burns and aches from the shock-lashes. He feels the wounds every time he takes a step, his armor pressing against the fresh wounds.

He is assigned to Moff Gideon’s newest squad, their mysterious grim reaper burning through men almost faster than they could supply . . . even with his own personal Death Trooper battalion. So he grits his teeth against the pain and keeps moving.

He knows why he’s here — because they are chasing a traitor.

“I hear we have one of us who recently thought a life on the run was better for them than the protection and the might of the Empire,” the Moff had said in his speech before they left base.

No helmets had turned his way, but he  _ knew _ they were thinking of him. They  _ knew _ what he’d done.

“Rebellions will not save you, they will burn you,” the Moff had crooned. “I will burn you.”

He would rather take a lifetime of shock-lashes than face the wrath of this dark Moff.

But the mission does not include Moff Gideon himself, as he soon discovers, but his underling Thilleon who thinks that snarling makes him equal to the Moff’s quiet, unshakable terror.

It doesn’t. It makes him look like a fool.

They find the fugitive soon after following the crash landing of the unmarked ship he’d joined on, and the squad sprints out into the muddy, bush-riddled flats towards the rising smoke of the fallen ship.

“Careful out there,” their squad leader says over comms. “Fugitive CT-113 is in company with a Mandalorian. Shoot to kill on sight.”

Shoot to kill . . .

He tries, he really does, but when he finally stumbles towards blaster shots and trips through a bush and rounds suddenly upon the disheveled fugitive . . . he hesitates.

A few days ago, this would have been him, eyes widening when faced with the armor he’d abandoned.

Except he is the one wearing the armor. He is the one facing himself, the one he’d tried to be and failed.

The Death Trooper coming up behind him doesn’t hesitate. He fires at the fugitive, who took the shot to the ground.

But when the Death Trooper walks closer to inspect the body, the fugitive lunges up and kicks the Trooper off balance. In the time between the stumble and fall of the black armored soldier, the fugitive shoots point blank and brings death to the Death Trooper.

He was standing there the entire time, numb and breathless and now, as the fugitive turns his blaster to him, he is definitely dead.

“Next time, don’t hesitate, kid,” the fugitive says, raising his blaster. “It’ll get you killed.”

Killed? Next time? Can’t be killed if he’s already dead.

The fugitive shoots again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't stop writing in LadyIrina's AU okay it's taken over my life
> 
> also first two chapters deal with the scenes we have of Michael from Family and Home  
> then I'm getting into the real original stuff/storyline  
> don't expect much Mandorin for a while in here too okay


	2. Failure and Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael faces an end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a lovely chapter title!!

He wakes up underwater.

It is a med-tank, half-face respirator strapped over his nose and mouth. His leg aches a little but he mostly feels the familiar press of submersion, water making him weightless and free.

The water brings a fierce and sudden wave of homesickness.

He closes his eyes and imagines he is back home, floating in the artificially-warmed oceans of Dorumaa. He pictures the deceptively beautiful blue surrounding him and almost hears the gurgling call of the giant turtles in his mind as he would dive deeper and deeper.

He’d almost drowned so many times in that ocean and loved every moment.

A sharp tap on the tank pulls him from his reminiscing and he opens his eyes to see the ripple-blurred figure of the Moff standing outside.

He is then promptly hauled from the med-tank by a droid to stand dripping and mostly naked in front of his fearsome superior, who looks at him like he’s nothing more than a disgusting womp rat.

The sound of water dripping onto the metal floor is so kriffing loud in the Moff’s terrifying silence.

And then the Moff finally speaks. “How’s the leg?” 

He blinks. This angle of conversation throws him off guard, spinning frantically for the right response that won’t send him for reconditioning . . . or worse.

But he doesn’t have to worry for long, because the Moff continues speaking.

“Did you let him go?”

He gapes at the Moff, feeling as if his breath has been punched out of his lungs. This time the panic completely floods his mind, washing all thoughts away until nothing but his spiraling fear remains.

“N-no!” he manages. “No. The-there was shooting and the fugitive got a stray shot a —”

“That same fugitive took down Death Troopers who’ve been fighting longer than you’ve been alive,” the Moff interrupts with frightening calm. “But here you are, just a blaster shot to the leg.”

This is it. He has nothing left.

But instead of a sentencing, all he gets is a thin smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, kid. You’ll have another chance to prove yourself tomorrow,” the Moff says, and leaves immediately after.

He wants to go back in the tank and escape into his memories of blue-water oceans. He thought becoming a trooper would have changed him, help him become something better . . .

But it hadn’t. It just made everything  _ worse _ .

~ + ~ + ~

He is assigned to Nevarro, this time with Moff Gideon at the helm.

The planet is hot in a thick, sulphuric way, the smell filtering past his helmet which means it isn’t going away anytime soon. And as the squad approaches the dirty silhouette of a town, his white armor quickly blackens with volcanic dust that makes him itch.

“The fugitive is not allowed escape this time,” Moff Gideon says to them, his dark cape billowing in the hot wind. “If any of you fail in this, it will be the last thing you do. Is that clear?”

If failure has never been an option with Moff Gideon, why was he given this second chance?

The squadron marches into the town, met by closed doors and armed Mandalorians. He fires and ducks, fires and ducks, and knows he should try to focus on  _ not _ failing. But chasing after fugitives and strange children for mysterious purposes aren’t why he’d signed up to be a trooper.

The Empire said they brought peace to the universe, but all he’s ever known trapped in this white armor has been unnecessary pain and suffering. The fugitive should have ended him properly instead of sending him back into this hell.

He is numb and spinning and rattled by explosions and blaster shots. He should be used to this, but he isn’t, he probably will never be used to it.

An explosion rocks the building he found cover by and sends the walls crumbling into dusty rubble. He stumbles forward and comes face to face with the fugitive he cannot seem to avoid.

The fugitive CT-113 lifts his blaster with a startled expression, but it clatters from his grip a moment later. The surprise on his dusty face shifts from surprise to resignation as he stands there, prepared for his end.

That same resignation he feels mirrored inside gives him the push to stop hesitating and finally  _ act _ .

“You told me not to hesitate,” he says.

The fugitive blinks, clearly confused at being addressed by who he thinks as an enemy. And then he seems to remember, his body shifting from defense into some vulnerable state.

If he wanted to redeem himself in the Moff’s eyes, he could lift his gun and end the fugitive right now.

“Why would you listen to the enemy? What do I know?” the fugitive says, swallowing hard enough it’s beyond obvious. “Please, do hesitate. Hesitate all you want, kid.”

The fugitive has no idea how old he is and yet he still calls him kid?

Fugitive CT-113 then glances over his shoulder at the sounds of the ongoing battle. More troopers could appear any second, a threat they both face.

“Actually, I’d really appreciate it,” the fugitive coughs, “if you hesitated just long enough for me to be on my way?”

“They say CT-113 is a traitor.” But he lowers his blaster as he speaks.

They can be traitors together.

He realizes an opportunity in front of him in this dusty, merciful fugitive, and he dives headfirst for it. He takes off his helmet, the true stench of Nevarro hitting him in the face and dust blowing gritty in his eyes. But this is his true step forward, a real no-looking-back getaway.

“But there are some of us,” he continues, “who are starting to wonder if you’re right.”

He knows this fugitive is right, is smart, is so, so lucky.

He then offers to lead the fugitive back through the fight-scarred alleys towards his Mandalorian allies, hoping this path can be his, too. As they walk, he keeps glancing over at the dark-haired fugitive almost as if he expects to wake up from this wonderful dream into the reality of a dark prison cell.

“There are things happening,” he blurts, his thoughts tumbling out unchecked, unfiltered. “Things we didn’t sign up to do. They say it’s necessary in order to rebuild the Empire, but . . .”

He’s lying. He doesn’t really know if there are others, but he believes there has to be. First this fugitive, and now him . . . they can’t be the only ones.

“War is never as glorious as the recruiters and the teachers at the Academy paints it out to be,” the fugitive says quietly. His tone reveals that he understands — _ completely _ .

When they leave the maze of corridors he somehow memorized, too close to enemy lines for him but close to the Mandalorians, the dusty fugitive turns to him.

“Come with us,” he offers.

This is what he’d hoped for, but he hadn’t thought it would actually happen.

“Really?” It feels  _ good _ to have this offer of salvation.

“You can’t stay here,” the fugitive says practically, but his eyes are kind.

“I . . .” he starts.

But then he sees the Moff, is seen by the Moff, and knows that raised blaster in the Moff’s hand is for him.

And that is the end.

No hope. No salvation. Just a blaster shot that slams into his chest and knocks him into oblivion.


	3. Rescue and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael meets a traitor of a different kind

He knows how deep he fell, but somehow he still rose back up alive.

Living  _ hurts _ . His chest aches, the pain radiating from somewhere along his left ribs. He can barely breathe under the pain, each inhalation thin, fighting gasps followed by whimpering exhales.

“Steady now, survivor,” a voice rumbles. “You got hit real rough out there, kiddo.”

He already knows this because he feels the effects of that hit.

“Who are you?” he gasps.

It’s not the Moff, so he doesn’t panic completely. But he still panics, his chest tightening further, even with the pain. Tears fall down his face and he isn’t a stormtrooper right now, he’s not ST-2199.

He’s just Michael. A nobody from Dorumaa who loves the ocean almost more than the creatures who live in it.

“Me?” the voice answers. “I’m a story for another time when you’re not hurting so bad.”

“Are you,” he wheezes, “are you with the . . . the Empire?”

“Hell no,” the voice snorts. A hand rests lightly, fleetingly against his forehead. “No fever, good. No, kid, I’m with the money.”

Michael knows people who live for money. He left the place where those kind lived and argued and found nothing but problems because of money.

He tries to sit up, but moans at the pain. And cries a little more because he can’t move.

“Hey, hey, don’t be like that,” the voice says a bit awkwardly. “You survived a Mandalorian firefight, which makes you something else. Something strong.”

“I’m not strong,” Michael murmurs.

The pain overtakes him, wrapping him once more in fitful darkness.

And he dreams of Dorumaa and its oceans.

He remembers running to the waveline, tripping and stumbling in the gray sand, until he let himself be swallowed up by the greedy blue. He remembers kicking down, down, down until his body felt squeezed and the respirator in his mouth didn’t seem like enough protection. He remembers the creatures of the ocean learning his presence and letting him swim with them as if he belonged.

It was funny what he remembers, how mute creatures had seemed to care more than his own family.

And then Michael wakes up again, still feeling the pressure of the ocean depths pressing on him.

“Welcome back,” the owner of the voice greets his confused flailing with firm, practical, but careful hands restraining him. “You found a fever.”

“Water,” he begs. “I want water.”

He’s given a glass full of soothing wet, but it’s not really the water he was asking for.

He wants the ocean again.

“Who are you?” he asks. “Why am I here? Where . . .” he fights not to cry, but his eyes sting and fill. “Where am I?”

“All right, all  _ right _ ,” is the reply. “Kid, I’m helping you, okay? The Empire isn’t coming for you. You’re hurt and hurting, and nobody thought to help you but  _ me _ . So relax, focus on healing up, and we’ll go from there. Okay?”

“Okay,” he responds automatically to the authoritative tone.

And he sleeps again.

He dreams of the oceans, dark and beautiful.

He dreams of the Moff stalking along the seafloor, dark cape billowing in the water like octi-ink. A blaster is in his hand and he points it at Michael.

“You deserve nothing but death,” the Moff snarls, no more calm just hideous rage.

“No!” Michael screams, swimming away. “No. I’m allowed to live!”

“Easy!” his rescuer says, pinning his shrieking body down. “Easy, kiddo. You’re gonna be okay.”

“No . . .” Michael sobs, clinging to the man. “I’m gonna die. He killed me. He killed me. I’m gonna die.”

The voice mutters something and then something is shoved past his dry lips, cooling his tongue.

“Used my last med on you, kiddo,” he hears.

And then he is waking up again, slow and alert this time. The pain is still there, but lessened from the blurred memories floating sluggishly in his mind. He blinks up at a stain-spattered ceiling and smells that awful sulphuric stench which tells him he probably hasn’t left Nevarro yet.

“Why hello there, sunshine,” that familiar voice drawls to his right.

Michael turns his head to look at his rescuer, a dark-skinned man with tired eyes and important-looking clothes that have seen much better days.

“Hello,” he says carefully.

The man laughs, taking a long drink from a black bottle before giving an exhaustion-heavy smile at him.

“Hello,” he mirrors. “How you feeling?”

“Not great,” Michael admits. “But better . . . I think.”

“I’ll say!” The man spreads his hands wide. “Kid, you were an inferno of infection last night. Lucky for you I still had a med leftover from a, er,  _ friend _ . Mix that with your fighting spirit and hey” —another smile, but brighter this time— “ got myself a survivor talking to me now.”

Michael’s never thought of himself as a survivor, just someone who got the good kind of luck from time to time. But the words send a ripple of pride through him, and he tucks them away in his mind with a faint smile.

“So,” the man says, taking another drink. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

“ST-1. . .”

No, that’s not his name. That’s just a number.

“Michael,” he says. “My name is Michael.”

“Well then, Michael,” the man grins, “since we’re going to be seeing a little bit more of each other til you’re all healed up, I probably just introduce myself, too.”

“Thank you,” Michael says, another smile coming and not so faint this time.

The man stands up, drink in one hand but the other reaching out for him to take and then get his fingers promptly squeezed.

“My name,” the man says, “is Greef Karga.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lbr and admit Greef would totally be a drama queen with introductions like this


	4. Rest and Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael finds some kind of peace with Greef Karga . . . until they don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little bit of a longer chapter this time??

He feels stronger the next day, so they exit the underground room this man Greef Karga had taken him. The town is dim and dusty, reeking with that acrid volcanic stench.

“You get used to it,” Greef says in response to his expression.

“The dust?”

“No, wise-mouth,” he replies around barking laughter. “The smell.”

Michael tries a laugh of his own as an answer and discovers that he likes talking like this. It’s weird and awkward and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do, but for once such things come easy to him.

“What are you?” he asks Greef after they’ve been wandering around a place he thinks is a market.

“Human,” the man says dismissively, turning over gray-skinned vegetables. “Damn dust has everything gray here. No color anywhere. It’s enough to make a grown man wanna just sit down and die.”

“I meant your rank,” Michael clarifies.

He agrees with the complaints about color but doesn’t say so. He’s happy to be here, aching and dressed in too-big clothes in graying shades of brown.

But he is also restless, looking over his shoulder for hints of white armor or measured marching footsteps.

“Relax, kiddo,” Greef mutters. “You’re gonna draw attention looking all antsy like that. Blend in. Poke at the merch. Walk slow.”

“Do you know them?” he tries again. “The fugitive? The Mandalorians?”

“I know of Mandalorians and maybe one a little more, but not much.” Greef moves to the next shabby stall, this one with a grill roasting several frog-like creatures that really don’t smell that appetizing. “Why all the questions?”

“Because you’re answering them.”

That earns him a long, long look from his rescuer, and Michael isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

“Sorry,” he mutters, ducking his head and looking at the ground.

“Hey, don’t give me any of that ingrained trooper bullshit!” he says not unkindly, a hand coming under Michael’s chin.

He flinches away, the imaginary bite of nails digging into his skin.

“Hey,” Greef says, “hey, hey, relax kiddo. Look”—the fingers retreat and he raises his hands palm-up—“I’m sorry. Just keep your chin up, all right? A little bit of confidence, even if you gotta fake it, will you get a lot farther in life than you think.”

He nods. He’s still looking at the ground, but he tries to raise his head. His training screams at him that he’s exhibiting signs of rebellion. Past experiences warn that he’s going to earn something for this . . .

But no strike descends. No snapped orders to “ _ get back in line, trooper! _ ” stab at his ears.

It’s just that man smiling too-wide at him, hands now propped on his hips. He meets Michael’s eyes and nods once in approval before turning back to the stall with a, “you hungry, kiddo?”

~ + ~ + ~

Several days later, Michael still doesn’t know why Greef Karga chose to rescue him.

He’d been shot in his armor, he had fallen in his armor, and yet he’d been rescued from his armor. Most came to stormtrooper bodies to burn or raid them. It was easy to rage at the corpses of enemies.

Also, he hates Nevarro. But it’s clear that Greef thrives here, met by so many different kinds of beings he’s lost count.

Michael has a few guesses as to what this Greef Karga is now. Which adds even more to confusion as to  _ why _ he chose to rescue a stormtrooper left for dead on just one more battlefield he really shouldn’t have been sent to.

More days roll by in a blur of gray ash. His wound heals in all aspects except memory, dreams reminding him of what it felt like to almost die. He doesn’t ask questions, just trails after Greef like a boy-shaped shadow because he doesn’t know what else he can do.

He longs for the ocean.

And then one day, when Greef is deep into that dark bottle of his, he slumps next to Michael and asks, “Do you know why I saved you?”

Michael shakes his head, not trusting his mouth to work properly with words right now.

They are in a graystone building with several rooms too many for Michael’s comfort but are clearly meant for Greef’s bragging rights. It smells of Neverrro but it’s warm and his bed is soft, so he thinks of it as home.

But it’s not home. That is where he can hear an ocean and smell salt water floating in the wind.

“Because,” Greef laughs, clapping a hand onto Michael’s shoulder as his personality demands, “you were alone.”

“Alone?”

“A lone stormtrooper almost near the Mandalorians, lying there with no big signs of fighting?” Greef takes a long draft from the bottle. When he smacks his lips, Michael can smell the alcohol wafting from his mouth. “That tickled my curiosity. But what tickled it the most was that you weren’t wearing a helmet.”

Oh, that. He’d wanted to be like the fugitive, not wrapped in that white armor hated by the galaxy.

“You’re so young,” Greef murmurs, soberness suddenly overtaking his tone. “So young. You don’t deserve this kind of life, kiddo.”

“I’m not that young,” Michael protests. “I’m just . . .”

“Just what? Fifteen? Sixteen?” Greef snorts. “Don’t lie to me, kid. I’m not the Empire.”

“Seventeen,” he whispers, but he doesn’t drop his gaze. Not by much.

“Years,” the man counters. “Years are just a number. It’s the experiences that count. And you’re still too young to have such old eyes, kid. Way too young.”

He leaves Michael then, muttering something about bad business messing with his head.

~ + ~ + ~

Michael wakes up to the smell of smoke.

“Kid!” Greef yells from somewhere in the thick, rolling black. “Wake up, kiddo!”

The man stumbles through the door a few minutes later, dark cloak pressed against his face. In the hazy dark, he appears like the Moff, and Michael panics.

“Get away!” he screams, falling out of bed and landing on hands and knees.

Blaster shots echo in the distance, followed by the pulsing roar of a fire gun. Heat wraps around him in a choking blanket he can’t escape.

Arms come around him, hauling up and over a shoulder.

“No!” he coughs and flails. “No, I’m not going back!”

“Calm down, kid!” the Moff  _ doesn’t _ say, but Greef does. “It’s just me.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, smoke and so many emotions rattling him to tears. “Sorry.”

“Save it and run,” he’s told.

And so they run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops another cliffhanger  
> SORRY NOT SORRY


	5. Defend and Survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nevarro conclave is attacked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit of a long chapter??  
> also apologies in advance for the high level _a n g s t_ in this one  
> I don't pull many punches heh
> 
> also fic is now rated M for Michael's struggles  
> but really there is some upcoming content I figured just safer to stick under a higher rating?? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

They run in darkness smudged with the red light of flames and blaster shots.

This feels like a waking nightmare and he runs on autopilot, stumbling after the blurry dark figure of Greef Karga. The ground shakes and his lungs hurt from breathing smoke more than air.

“Run, kid!” Greef yells, but his voice is drowned out by a nearby explosion that sends the building to their left crumbling down.

Michael keeps running. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he just runs and hopes this is the right direction.

He trips and falls a moment or so later, sprawling heavy and painful against the dusty rubble. His lips feel chalky with Nevarro ash as he tries to find clean air but only ends up coughing harder, chest tight and aching.

Bodies rush past him in a blur of pounding footsteps and blaster shots. He curls up instinctively, arms around his head.

Where is Greef?

Suddenly he’s hauled up by the collar of his shirt, the fabric pressing in on his throat. He struggles uselessly, blind to the fact if this is a savior or an end. But the person just shifts their grip from his shirt to an arm around his stomach like an iron band.

Michael looks ahead to see several stormtroopers running at him through the smoke, blasters up and shooting red. His rescuer shoots expertly with a heavier kind of gun, dropping troopers left and right with their free hand.

And then the body behind him tenses and then  _ jumps _ , hauling them from the ground and into the air.

Michael shrieks instinctively, clutching at the arm around his middle. The surface below draws further and further from his feet as they ascend wobbly but definitively.

“Stop squirming,” a voice rumbles deeply against his back . . . and filtered through a helmet modulator.

They dodge stray blaster shots and move with stomach-dropping twists through the smoke until they descend and he has control of his own gravity once more. He collapses forward with a gasp, his knees landing hard on the ground with a pain he barely registers.

There’s too much happening right now for pain like that to really matter. Because when he looks over his shoulder at his rescuer, a Mandalorian towers over him.

They’re big and broad, a terrifying gun held easily in one hand while that hidden gaze stares down at him. He feels so  _ small _ fallen on the ground like this, like something easily crushed under a boot.

“There you are, kid!” Greef rushes at him, bending down to help him up.

He is so, so confused.

“Here,” another Mandalorian says, coming up and pushing a blaster into his hands. This figure is smaller and the voice is lighter. “We don’t have long. There’s another wave coming.”

“We can’t hold them here if they keep coming like this,” Greef says, a hand on Michael’s shoulder.

They’re running again, but this time as part of a group, surrounded by Mandalorians. More silver armored figures drop out of the smoke to join them as they take cover behind a half-fallen building.

“Those three left just in time,” a Mandalorian says to another, and Michael thinks the one speaking is the one who picked him up out of the smoking rubble.

“What’s the call?” another asks, scuffling over from the far edges of the group. “Hold or pull?”

“Nothing from the brass,” is the reply.

“Are there enough of you to win?” Greef asks.

“No,” Michael murmurs to himself, too quiet for anyone to hear.

He realizes now what this is—a burn. The troopers aren’t here for him or the Mandalorians. They’re here for the town, for everyone.

“We have to get out of here,” he says, standing up.

“Get  _ down _ !” Greef snaps, tackling him to the rubble just as a flurry of blaster shots puncture the space his body had been.

The gifted gun slams hard into his chest bone, enough that he knows there’s going to be a mark for days. The metal digs into his skin and pushes the air out of his already-starving lungs.

“Who is this kid?” the big Mandalorian rumbles, a dangerous sound in their voice.

“War orphan,” Greef snaps, arms still around Michael. “And he’s right. You’re Mandalorians but you’re not an army.”

There isn’t any time for replies because the stormtroopers are close enough to earn most of the Mandalorians’ attention. They return fire with deadly skill, but skill isn’t enough against overwhelming numbers. There’s always another trooper that storms forward to take the place of the fallen.

One Mandalorian falls with a strangled cry, hauled limp and silent by another as the group falls back under the attack.

“Hold or pull?” a Mandalorian yells, an automatic blaster gun hefted on their hip and providing the majority of their stopping power to the tsunami of white-armored bodies.

“Pull back!” the big one replies, stepping in front of Michael.

Only when a shot ricochets off into the darkness does he realize the Mandalorian is shielding him as they retreat. Michael clutches the blaster he was given, but he’s shaking so badly now he doesn’t know if any of his shots would count.

And he looks at the stormtroopers, at their Nevarro-smudged armor, and he remembers wearing that armor. He remembers running across battlefields he knew only through the holomap overlaid across his helmet visor, shooting without really caring if he killed because, when they checked his blasters, they only cared if he’d pulled the trigger or not.

He wasn’t a killer. But he had killed.

He didn’t want to kill.

They’re backed up against a wall now, the Mandalorians standing in front of Greef and Michael, offering what protection their beskar-armored bodies can give. But a burning laser bolt still finds Greef’s leg and he leans heavily against Michael with a loud expletive. 

“Inside,” one of the smaller, lighter-voiced Mandalorians says, pushing them towards a too-small looking crevice. “Get inside!”

“I can’t squeeze in there!” Greef bellows, but he tries. And succeeds, his tight grip on Michael’s arm making sure he follows after him.

The rest of the Mandalorians pile through, starting first with those carrying their fallen. And there are more silver-armored corpses than he thought there would be.

“We can hold them off a little easier in the tunnels,” the big Mandalorian says, the last one through.

They’re moving further into the darkness, but it’s not as smoky as outside, which means Michael can breathe easier. But he is slow under the dragging weight of Greef, who moans a little every time he uses his wounded leg.

“Is it bad?” Michael asks him.

“It  _ feels _ bad.”

“He’ll be fine,” a Mandalorian interjects, coming up to help support Greef.

They move faster, trying to stay ahead of the oncoming stormtroopers. The Mandalorians turn on lights attached to their helmets to light their way, and Michael thanks the one helping him with Greef Karga.

“Stay alive,  _ verd’ika _ ,” the Mandalorian replies. “This is the Way.”

“It is?” he asks, that damn curiosity appearing even when he’s literally running for his life.

The Mandalorian makes a noise that sounds like laughter. “It is.”

After several minutes of jogging through the twisting, dark tunnels, they round upon a larger lit area. They’re met by even more Mandalorians, but these with less armor than those who were outside fighting.

Michael and the helping Mandalorian lower Greef against a wall, the Mandalorian crouching to inspect the man’s leg.

“How bad is it?” Greef hisses when his pant leg is pulled back from the wound.

“It probably hurts worse than it is,” the Mandalorian replies. They reach into a pocket against a thigh and spray something on Greef’s leg. “You’ll be fine in a few hours.”

“Hey, I’m not worth bacta,” Greef mutters, looking over at the fallen Mandalorians. “Tend to your own.”

But the Mandalorian has already finished the bacta application, and hands the container to Michael.

“I don’t need this,” he protests, but the Mandalorian closes his fingers over the bottle with a gloved hand.

“Keep it,” they say. “You might need it.”

Suddenly, the modulated murmurs and scuffling dies down, enough to be noticeable. The Mandalorians part to make room for a figure in bronzed beskar, their helmet shaped differently than the others. This Mandalorian steps carefully, helmet turning to take in those gathered and lingering on those fallen.

“So they have come,” the clearly authoritative figure speaks, in a voice that is obviously female.

The big Mandalorian who rescued Michael steps forward. “This is our home.”

“Home is the creed,” she replies firmly. “And we take the creed wherever we go. This is the way.”

“This is the way,” all the Mandalorians respond solemnly.

Michael itches to ask what this way is that they speak about with such reverence, but he bites his tongue to stop the question. His teeth pinched against the tip of his tongue is a familiar feeling, and something he hasn’t done much since Greef pulled him back from the brink of death.

“So we leave . . . again,” the big Mandalorian growls.

“Our duty is to the assurance of our future,” the bronze leader answers. She turns slowly to show she is speaking to all in this tunnel. “We must protect the foundlings. Prepare the ships. Leave as fast as you can. This is the way.”

“This is the way.”

This time, when they answer, Michael joins in.

As the Mandalorians hurry into preparations, gear bundled into packs and smaller figures hustled down a side tunnel, the leader walks towards Greef and Michael. The big Mandalorian is at her side, and the one who gave the bacta stays next to Michael.

“What brings the Guild into our culvert?” she asks.

Greef glances over at Michael as his identity is revealed so bluntly, but it’s nothing he hadn’t guessed at before.

“We got caught in the firefight,” Greef says. “Your people chose to protect us.”

“They were alone,” the helpful Mandalorian adds quickly. “Greef asked us to look for the boy, and Paz found him fallen in the rubble.”

“I see,” the leader replies, glancing at the big Mandalorian who Michael assumes is named Paz.

The big Mandalorian shrugs. “Foundlings are the future.”

“This is the way,” agrees the leader.

“They’re coming!” someone yells.

The busyness of the Mandalorians turns chaotic as they scramble together, weapons at the ready.

“We will take you with us if you choose to go,” the leader says to them.

But there is no chance for anyone to say anything else because the stormtroopers appear in a swarm of white armor and red laser bolts.

“Go, go, go!” Paz yells, charging at the foremost troopers.

“To the ships!” the leader cries, pulling two large hammers from her belt and crushing in the helmet of one trooper and then spinning to fell another.

Michael and the other Mandalorian haul Greef to his feet, who is busy shooting troopers with a free hand. Michael latches the gifted blaster onto his belt with the attached hook on its side. The Mandalorian also shoots with their free hand as the trio staggers back under the onslaught.

“To the ships!” the leader calls again.

“Go!” the Mandalorian tells them. “We’ll hold them off.”

Michael is absolutely terrified, but strangely he also feels the bravest he’s ever been surrounded by these Mandalorians. He wants to repay their kindness, not run away as if it means nothing.

He fumbles downward for the blaster, but the Mandalorian shakes their helmet.

“Stay alive,  _ verd’ika _ ,” they say again. “This is not your fight today.”

“We need to go, kid” Greef says. “ _ Now _ .”

Michael nods, tears stinging his eyes. He shouldn’t worry so much about these beskar-clad warriors . . . but he also saw so many of them die just minutes ago.

“Stay alive,” he tells the Mandalorian.

Another nod. “Go!”

They turn and start running as fast as Greef’s leg will allow. The Mandalorians follow after slower, walking backwards, providing as much cover fire as they can against the unending flow of stormtroopers.

And then Greef stumbles with a cry, clutching his side. Michael stops, but the man pushes him away.

“Don’t worry about me, Mikey,” he says. His voice is tight with pain. “I’ll catch up. Promise.”

“No . . .” he argues.

“Run!” a Mandalorian shouts. “We can’t hol—”

Blaster shots echo off the walls like rolling thunder. Michael looks up and time seems to slow, his vision filled with nothing but shadows and white armor and red fire.

He stumbles backwards, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. He doesn’t want to leave, but he knows he cannot stay. He’ll reach the ships and Greef and the others will be there soon, just like they promised.

~ + ~ + ~

Greef Karga watches the kid stumble away, those starved-narrow cheekbones shiny with tears. His own eyes sting a little too, and this time he doesn’t tell himself it’s just the smoke.

It’s affection for the boy he found pale and alone in the white armor that would have made him just another faceless enemy . . . except that his helmet was gone. And the truth was revealed.

Greef couldn’t walk away when he knew it was just a  _ boy _ there.

And then that boy had a name, followed after him like a little pup with those young eyes that had seen too many old things.

“Stay alive, kid,” he murmurs.

The Mandalorians reach him, the younger helpful one stopping to crouch by him.

“Where?” they ask.

Greef just lifts his blood-slick hand from the hole through his ribs. It  _ hurts _ , kriff it hurts so bad, but he can handle it. At least the kid hadn’t taken this shot.

“Hold this position,” the Mandalorian leader says, her heads of her hammers red with stormtrooper blood. “Hold until the ships are gone.”

~ + ~ + ~

Michael can’t find the Mandalorian ships.

He runs through so many tunnels so many times and finds nothing. He can still hear blaster shots in the far, muffled distance . . . but soon he hears nothing but his desperate footsteps and wheezing breaths.

He’s too far from the battle, he tells himself. But he knows that’s a lie.

There is silence because there is death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first 4 chapters were Michael's "rebirth"  
> here on out is where his real story begins mwhaha


End file.
